


Bad Dog

by RatTale



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Child Abuse, Child Death, First Kiss, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped John, M/M, Possible torture, Violence, argument
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-02-07 13:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18621349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RatTale/pseuds/RatTale
Summary: During a hard case Holmes and Watson part ways after an argument, and now Holmes suddenly has more to worry about than missing children.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Game_is_Afoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Game_is_Afoot/gifts).



> Thank you to The_Game_Is_Afoot for requesting this! :) It should have been up a long time ago, but I just never got around to it XD
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

It had turned into one of _those_ case. The ones where little blue shoes were found in alleyways, or pink ribbons stained with blood were tied to lamp posts like torn flags. Where all the trails led to dead ends and often to dangerous men who sported grins that made you shake with rage. Those cases that Watson never, ever published, because he couldn't do that to their beloved city. The Ripper had done enough.

 

But Holmes still took them up. As much as he hated them – always a horrible reflection of the part of humanity he had no time for – he took them up with a manic obsession, desperate to solve them before the day was out, to prevent another parent from hearing the worst. But the case had been lost before he’d even started. Lestrade, damn him had only approached Holmes when the third child had gone missing, a whole three weeks after the first abduction. Clues were scarce, and those that had been there had been lost in the long suffering rain that held the city in a dreary cold grip.

 

But Holmes would not be the detective he was if he couldn’t pluck clues from almost nothing, and his patience persevered three days into the case. Two leads surfaced like fish lines dangling juicy bits of bait, one which led him to an upper-class club, the other he gave to Watson which took his friend to a pub on the other side of town.

 

“Watch the pub,” was all he said to his friend, “And if he leaves, follow him.”

 

As horrible luck would have it, Watson had had the better lead. And as even worse luck would have it, his friend had royally screwed up and had let their quarry escape. Holmes had never felt such disappointment in his life.

 

The alley was dark, thick with rain, muck and the smell of refuse. Holmes stood at its mouth, his hands shaking, staring almost unseeing at the spot where Lestrade had picked up the little doll, a clue washed clean by the rain. Behind him stood Watson, dead quiet and patiently waiting for Holmes to say anything. What the devil was he supposed to say?

 

He was angry. Angry at this dead-end case, he was angry at Lestrade for not coming to him sooner, angry at himself for not being able to think faster, and angry at Watson for blundering the damned stake-out.

 

“Holmes, I am sorry.”

 

He spun on him, the alley thankfully deprived of coppers or vagrants and spat in a cutting voice “As you should be! This is _your fault_!”

 

“Holmes, I-”

 

“Such a simple thing, keep an eye on the man. Keep an eye on him, that's all I asked! What a simple request, but simple ideas have always seemed to be beyond your comprehension!”

 

Watson did not retort, he remained silent and standing at attention, his straight back and blank face brought to mind a private being reprimanded by his sergeant. “There is no excuse for this. Damn it!” he spun on him, his breathing coming up fast and hard, “Her death is on your head! Your hands! Your blundering stupidity!”

 

Watson’s gaze flicked down for a moment, faltering at the fierce assault, but even this clear regret did nothing to temper Holmes’ fury. “Honestly, there are times where I am forced to ask why I even allow your input! It has proven to be utterly worthless!”  
  
“Holmes, that is hardly fair!”  
  
“Indeed? And to what capacity have you helped my cases?”

 

“Many times! I have written your stories, I know them almost by heart!”  
  
“Tell me then, how will you write this case up? How will it be presented to our adoring public? You so enjoy to write the romantic parts of these stories, perhaps you wish to enlighten me how you will go about writing down how you were the cause of a child’s death?”

 

“I will write the truth! Damn it Holmes, I know that I have erred tonight, and I take full responsibility for it! But there is no need to beat me down further!” he was panting, bristling like an angry dog. “I am still your friend!”

 

“I don't _need_ a friend!” he spat, “If this night has proven anything, it is that! You offer me nothing! Dense, unobservant and useless, that is what you are! At the very least I have now realised that any wretch I might have dragged up from the seediest parts of London would have sufficed in your place!” he laughed, voice bitter. “I don't need anyone to _help_ me Watson, least of all a crippled dog that can't follow orders!”

 

A sudden silence hung between them. Holmes would not look at him, he couldn’t bare the sight of him right now. Finally Watson asked said; “Pardon?”

 

And the fury rouse again like a rabid beast, “Yes, Watson I have implied that you are less than a dog!” now he spun back on him, drinking in his look of shock and uncertainty, he'd never resented anyone so much his life, “A crippled, _disobedient_ dog! Because an obedient dog would at the very least be able to follow its master's orders!”

 

The change was instantaneous. Watson's expression cooled, suddenly quite fierce, suddenly quite angry. For a moment he was certain Watson would strike him, and it surprised Holmes how desperately he needed him to do so. But Watson, ever the gentleman, bit down on his rage and said in a voice tight and fierce; “Then perhaps it would be best if I left. Seeing as I am such a burden on you and your cases.”

 

“That my _dear_ Watson, is the only useful observation you've made in your life.” Before Watson could retort, he turned and stormed down the alley, holding onto his rage and ignoring Watson's worried call.

 

The walk took him deeper into the winding alleys of London's darker territories. At this time of night the world was almost abandoned. The vague singing of drunkards swung up and through the rain as he turned another corner. The cacophony of the pub was enough to chase him back into the darker mazes. He did not wish for company.

 

How could Watson be this stupid? How could he be _that_ dense? Holmes had always considered the man to be in possession of some basic intellect. Running off after some wounded damsel and ignoring the _child-murderer_ on the other side of the street had to be on the other side of idiotic.

 

Watson had recited some feeble excuse of a boy begging him to come, of being dragged away, of feeling obliged to go. Which only served to prove Holmes’ point. His damned chivalry would be the end of him!

 

His feet were starting to ache, and truth be told he was dog-tired. Holmes tried to ignore a sudden flash of guilt and quickly waved down a passing cab. He gave the address and sat back, already planning on ignoring Watson the second he stepped in. He knew Watson well, when he returned he would once again apologise, try and make up for his mistake. But Holmes would not yield not this time, a child was missing, most likely dead and it was Watson’s fault.

 

When he reached Baker Street he was vaguely surprised to see the lights were off. Watson's custom was usually to wait for his return, no matter on what terms they’d parted. He scoffed, perhaps Watson did have some sense after all, staying out of Holmes’ way would be best.

 

The thought vanished when he hung up his hat and coat. The pegs were empty, there was no sign of Watson's accessories. He hadn’t returned? To make sure, he scanned the living room to find it untouched, not a paper or book out of place. No, Watson hadn't returned yet. A sudden weariness washed over him. He was probably staying at a local hotel to avoid Holmes altogether for a day or two. Obviously he was not in the mood for another tongue lashing – or to be shunned entirely.

 

Holmes collapsed in a chair, suddenly spent, the quiet and emptiness of the apartment was almost too much to bear and it would be a long while before he fell asleep.

 

The morning brought with it a dreary dawn with no sign of Watson. For some time he remained in his bed, watching the light spill through the curtains and into his room. He hadn't slept much, the images of dolls and ribbons almost burned into him, turning his dreams into frightful nightmares.

 

He pushed himself into the pillow and let the soft morning and warm bed chase away some of the frustration.

 

Some time after nine he shuffled his way into the living room, which still sat undisturbed. He tried not to think about anything much and called for tea.

 

After speaking with his Irregulars, Holmes wrapped himself in a long robe and stayed indoors, watching the rain and finally starting to ponder the particulars of the case. Their last lead had slipped into the under belly of London. The chances of extracting him from it was next to impossible, he would have to hope his urchins managed to find him again.

 

And just like that the horrible argument from the night before rose up to settle around him like a dark cloak. In the morning light it all seemed so wrong. Where had he found the audacity to speak so viciously to him? He still felt justified in his anger, but not at his words. Watson had been right. He was his biographer, but also his friend, and one shouldn’t treat a friend so abhorrently.

 

“ _I don't need anyone to help me Watson, least of all a crippled dog that can't follow orders!_ ”

 

The mere memory made him wince. He hadn't meant to say that to Watson. The thought, that horrible thought, had been planted there by Mycroft. When he'd reprimanded Holmes for being friends with such a lowly character. Believing Holmes could do better, that he could have friends in grander circles. Holmes had rightfully been angry and had tried to explain to him Watson's greatest qualities.

 

“ _He is loyal, brave, and always willing!”_

 

“ _You've just described a good pointer.”_ Mycroft had drolled raising a lazy eyebrow, _“I can buy you a good breed if your need for a dog is so great.”_

 

The comment had both stung and muted him for a full moment. Then Holmes had, with some serious self-control, politely asked Mycroft to drop the subject and never to bring it up again. Mycroft had conceded, but he knew he had hit a raw nerve.

 

Holmes collapsed into his chair, bent over and close tot he fire. He felt angry at himself for allowing Mycroft to get to him, but mostly for allowing his own anger to get the better of him. When Watson returned he would be ready to make things right, even if it had been his friend’s fault Watson had not deserved such a vicious reprimand.

 

Watson probably blamed himself more than enough.

 

For the time being he had a case to solve.

 

At eight o’clock Mrs. Hudson brought him coffee and breakfast along with the mail. Holmes drank the coffee, ignored the food and paced the apartment. A fog of tobacco filled the sitting room hanging thick and dreary around him like a smoky coat. He kept pacing, churning the clues and events around in his head.

 

Scotland Yard was convinced it was a single person working alone. There was no blackmail, no messages, nothing other than a twisted soul out to quench his thirst. But Holmes felt differently about it. The clues left out for them to find, the stained ribbon tied to a lamp post like a sort of tease. And of course the sheer amount of victims in such a short time. A horrible instinct told him that this was horrible spree was a message, and these children were being used for something other than to slate a man’s depraved urges.

 

He continued smoking and pacing, the fog turning thicker by the hour. Eleven o’clock brought the familiar tread of Mrs. Hudson feet on the stairs, probably bringing tea, he thought vaguely.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” she coughed and shook a hand in front of her face, balancing a tray on the other, “This room is barely fit for living!”

 

“You may put that down and leave, Mrs. Hudson, thank you!” he all but snapped, keeping his eyes focused on the streets outside. He couldn’t afford to have his thought process broken now.

 

She rolled her eyes, and placed the tray on the table and left Holmes to his thoughts. His pacing took him back to the breakfast table, he sat down and poured a cup of tea. Absently he sifted through the mail, noting a large package he pulled it closer and picked up the letter knife.

 

Without the information of their lost lead it would be impossible to bring these horrible people to justice. He just hoped he hadn’t left the city...

 

Holmes froze.

 

The small package now half-opened on his lap, revealed inside a battered and bruised, but so very familiar item. His hands, trembling, pulled it out and his heart clenched. A bowler hat. A very familiar bowler hat. His breathing picked up, as all of the small bits of information called his attention. The familiar dent where it had been gripped between a thumb and a cane. The frayed edge where it would be turned over and over in hands too restless to be still. The dirt on the side, the rumpled edges, the blood splatter. He turned it to look inside and he almost dropped it.

 

_Stop searching, or he dies_.

 

The words were scrawled roughly on the inside, dark and ugly against the tan brown. Blood, his mind supplied. Most likely Watson’s.

 

That thought cut through him like an electric shock. He dropped the hat and ripped open the sitting room door, taking the steps two at a time. He’d never checked, he’d never made sure that Watson had taken anything for a stay at a hotel.

 

The door bounced against the wall when he flung it open, denting the plaster. He ignored it and stormed in eyes picking up the trails of absolutely _nothing_. Watson had never returned home, and he’s been missing for almost a full day.

 

He backed away from the room as if it was the scene of some horrible murder. This couldn’t be happening. Watson couldn't have been taken, he couldn't have been abducted, the thought the very idea felt absurd to him, like some sick joke.

 

Spinning around he ran back down the stairs, heart pounding like a drum.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” he barely looked to see Lestrade’s smile fade into worry, “What’s happened?’ he asked, trailing behind Holmes into the sitting room.

 

“A crises,” he managed, voice tight. He snatched the hat from the table and headed straight for his chemistry set. Clues, he had to find clues, information and leads on this hat. They were there waiting for his practiced hand to extract them and use them to find Watson.

 

“Isn’t that the Doctor’s bowler?”

 

Holmes looked up to find Lestrade behind him, his expression barely a reflection of the panic which was slowly consuming Holmes, he returned to his inspection, “Yes.” he said, “It came in the post.”

 

“What's happened?”

 

“They abducted him last night.” the words fell from his lips without much thought. Giving information about the particulars of cases was part of his life. Yet when they fell, a sort of cold wave washed over him, numbing his hands into stillness, brining his thoughts to a crawl and his heart to a slow hard beat.

 

Watson was missing. Not only missing, but in the hands of men who felt nothing about killing children. What were the chances that he was even still alive?

 

Small, far too small.

 

A gentle hand upon his shoulder pulled him back from the edge of despair. He turned to look into the eyes of Lestrade. His expression quite kind, “You will find him.” he said, eyes burning with such conviction and such belief in this fact that Holmes felt quite humbled in the face of it.

 

Holmes nodded, and the motion brought the life back to his extremities. He returned to the hat, listening faintly as Lestrade went to ask for more tea. His heart still pounded, his hands still trembled through each action. Their last conversation ran through his mind like a wild colt, kicking up a brutal storm, he couldn’t escape it and every cell hummed with the need to find him alive.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the new chapter is enjoyable! :)

They never drank the tea.

 

In less than ten minutes Lestrade and Holmes were charging down the steps of Baker Street, past a bewildered Mrs. Hudson and into the streets of London. The hat revealed enough to give them a lead; a certain type of mud which could only be found near the docks. Along with that particles from soot, close to a factory, the texture of the particles suggested a steel mill.

 

Holmes felt invigorated in their negligence. Leaving such clues was almost a written confession. He would find them, and with them Watson. The cold fear was fading, leaving only the thrill of the chase. Children and mourning parents felt so distant, so secondary to finding his Boswell. He barely had enough sense to feel ashamed by that fact.

 

They arrived in a police cart, with two extra constables, and a storm chasing their heels. “This should be the place,” said Lestrade, checking his revolver and motioning for the two men to fall in stride next to him. Holmes was already scanning the area, looking for a possible hide-out. In no time they identified an old dilapidated structure close to the water, which in turn stood against the backdrop of a factory puffing up billows of smoke.

 

It was a small abandoned warehouse in disuse with its supports gaping like broken ribs to the sky. Holmes spared no time in taking off to the warehouse. His heart was now pounding a mix of adrenaline, anticipation and fear straight through him. The hope was quietly cooled by a sudden spike of cold dread; his darker thoughts turning to darker possibilities…

 

No! They’d responded quickly, they’d been fast, he had to hold onto that.

 

When Holmes’ hand gripped the door ready to rip it open Lestrade was close on his heels, his two constables following in his shadow. Their eyes met, and with a brief nod from Lestrade Holmes ripped open the door, the tip of Lestrade’s revolver already pressing into the darkness.

 

And it _was_ dark, soft beams of grey sunlight barely filtered in through the broken roof. The place felt barren, abandoned and almost too empty. Without a word Lestrade stepped in. Beyond the darkness the place was quiet, almost painfully so. Holmes stayed behind Lestrade, the two constables taking up the rear.

 

On the ground Holmes could just make out an array of different boots, ash and cigarette stubs littered on the floor. There were people here, very recently.

 

His heart stopped. Far in the corner stood a small structure, broken off from the open warehouse lonely and sagging. But warm yellow light spilled out from under the door. Lightly he tapped Lestrade on the shoulder and pointed to it. The inspector nodded, gestured to his two men, and they slowly proceeded closer.

 

Holmes could feel his heart ramming in his chest, his eyes sharp and ears alert for any sign of a trap or someone waiting for them. Every shadow felt deeper than it should, every sound a possible man closing the gap, perhaps a gun being loaded in the dark. Some part of him wanted to run, dear God, had he allowed them to stumble into a trap?

 

Lestrade’s hand curled around the door handle. Holmes listened, but there was no sound, no scuffle or voice. Again, their eyes met, Lestrade giving him the hardest frown he’d ever seen. He might not be observant, but the man’s instincts had never failed him before.

 

Holmes reached out instead, pushing Lestrade’s hand away, if this was a trap, then he would take the risk. The Inspector stood back and held the revolver ready, his two men doing the same. With one final breath, Holmes gripped the handle, closed his eyes and ripped it open.

 

The scream got stuck somewhere between voice and mouth.

 

“Jeezus!” Lestrade yelled, stepping back holding a hand over his mouth. One of the younger men threw up. There was so much damned blood. Guts strewn like ribbons, making almost beautiful glistening patterns on the cement floor. Holmes began to tremble; his body seemingly frozen in shock. But it was the words scrawled wide and long across the wall that made his heart both stutter and sag with a horrible sort of relief.

 

_Final warning, Mr. Holmes._

 

He let out a shuddering breath.

 

“You don’t think... “

 

Holmes turned to Lestrade, realising only then he’d almost frozen completely. “That any of... this is Watson’s?” he closed his eyes and shook his head, “I don’t think so Inspector, the words on the wall seem to suggest otherwise.”

 

“I meant...”

 

He looked at him again, noting the strained worried expression. Oh. One of the children. “I don’t know,” he looked again at the entrails, “By the amount and size, I believe it was an adult. Although without further investigation, I can’t be sure.”

 

Lestrade nodded, some of the tension leaving his expression, disgust and revulsion taking its place. He frowned, “What’s that?”

 

In the centre of the room stood a chair, almost untouched by the blood and gore around it. It stood under the light, there were shackles on the armrests and legs. Clearly to hold someone still. The very images those shackles conjured made Holmes’ stomach churn. The blood could not hide the traffic this place had seen, and the older blood splatter on the wood suggested a far darker use than simply holding someone there.

 

But Lestrade was not pointing at the chair, he was instead pointing to what was on the centre of the chair. A small piece of white cloth, neatly folded.

 

Curiosity often outweighed sense and Holmes stepped in, the stench somehow became worse. He took care to move over the entrails and guts, ignoring the vile stench as best he could, and reached out to take the small thing. There was something inside. With care he opened it and his hands fumbled before dropping it on the chair again.

 

They were teeth, two molars, pulled fresh from a mouth. On the cloth was another note.

 

 _Next time it will be fingers_.

 

Holmes barely had time to run outside before he threw up.

 

 

He couldn’t move. After throwing up his almost empty stomach Holmes had slid down the wall to sit on his haunches, and now he couldn’t move. The words kept running through him, burning into his head giving him a horrible head ache. Even his nose ached.

 

He didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to wonder about the possibilities the dark horrible things his friend has had to endure, which he possibly still was enduring. His denial strangled his own sense and logic like a convicts hands around the neck of a truthful witness. He couldn’t afford to think. Because he couldn’t possibly wish Watson was still alive in the hands of such monsters. And yet he did. The thought of losing him was just too painful to bare.

 

A soft pit-pat of boots on cements and the soft rustle of cloth announced the arrival of Lestrade. Holmes did not look up.

 

In the silence he felt more than heard the detective slide down next to him. “Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“Fine.” He spat, keeping his head down close to his knees. If Lestrade was going to ask stupid questions he would not waste his time on giving decent answers.

 

One burst of sulphur and flaring light later and Lestrade lit a cigarette. The smoke coiled and danced about. He offered one to Holmes and he took it with an unsteady hand, lighting it on the proffered match. The first pull was the first clear breath he took since seeing that horrible room.

 

“It’s a calf,” said Lestrade. Holmes turned to look at him, his face cast in shadows and lit only by the red ember of light. “Inside,” he pointed to the door next to them, “The guts are from an animal, I think it was just to scare us.”

 

It worked. Holmes thought and instantly winced at the second thought hot on the heels of the first; they did it as a warning, to show them what they would do to Watson eventually. His shoulders tensed trying to hold back another wave of vomit. “The teeth were human.” He finally managed his hand trembling the ash right off his cigarette.

 

“I know.”

 

They continued to smoke. Listening to the puffing factory far outside and the shuffling of the two constables inside. He should probably get in there and find some clues or leads. The two were most likely making more problems than doing any good.

 

“I heard you.”

 

Again, he looked up, but this time Lestrade was looking at the ground where he quietly flicked his ash.

 

“I commend you on your ability for cryptic comments tonight, Inspector.”

 

“Last night.” He took a quick puff, “Last night at the crime scene I heard you two yelling at each other. I heard most of what you said.”

 

A sort of cold hush crept over his body and suddenly he couldn’t move again.

 

But when Lestrade looked at him, his expression seemed soft. “Mr. Holmes I don’t think- “

 

“Mr. Holmes?”

 

They both turned to look at the Constable, who stood halfway in the door. “What is it Constable?” said Lestrade, voice back to its usual level of command and impatience.

 

“We, um, we found something interesting?”

 

“Oh, did you now?” Lestrade said standing up to face the man, blocking Holmes from view. “Would you mind being a little more specific?” The constable stuttered and muttered something about the chair, and Lestrade grilled him, perhaps a little too hard. It took Holmes only a moment to realise the Inspector was giving him a moment to compose himself.

 

Taking a hard drag from his cigarette he snuffed it and stood, surprised to find his feet at least somewhat steady. “Show me, Constable.”

 

Lestrade fell silent, casting a glance over his shoulder. His eyes scanned up and down Holmes’ frame, then nodded and stepped aside, letting Holmes pass. The stench was still awful, but he was better prepared for it and managed to keep his empty stomach from rebelling again.

 

“Over here,” the constable pointed to the chair where there were some footprints made in blood, “I saw them and thought it best to call you, sir.” He turned to Holmes, his fresh face sombre but hopeful, “I know you get all sorts of things from footprints.”

 

Without a word Holmes stepped closer, pulling the magnifying glass out of his pocket. He barely had to inspect them to recognise them, “They are Watson’s.” he said, peering a little closer, “And they were made after the room was covered in this massacre.”

 

“Then that means the doctor walked out of his own power,” said Lestrade, his voice turning excited, “At the very least we know he left the room alive!”

 

Holmes did not respond; on the floor he could see small splatters of blood. It could very well be overlooked as blood from the poor calf, but the pattern and age suggested it was here before the slaughter. Adjusting his position, he leaned closer and examined the small droplets, and slowly moved up to the chair. More blood, same age and colour, so clearly from the person who’d been tied to the chair. “Watson was held here,” he concluded, tracing a hand over the metal clasp most likely used to keep his friend still. The dried blood on the clasp suggested his friend had struggled quite fiercely.

 

“Perhaps they interrogated him?” Lestrade was once again ignored in favour of following a one-centimeter wide trail of blood sliding under the armrests. He tilted his head and huffed. It was simply too dark to see.

 

“Bring some light inspector!”

 

A lamp was lit and quickly brought over. Holmes took it and placed it right under the armrest on the floor, he leaned back in. Instantly his eyes widened and then he smiled. On the surface was a small message written in blood; ‘P at ri ck s’. By the trembling and erratic nature of the letters, Holmes could tell he’d done them at different times, and clearly while in pain.

 

But a glowing pride faded some of the emotions away. Watson had been in pain, in danger and still kept his ears out for clues and names. The emotion tightened into something painful in his chest and he almost collapsed on the floor.

 

Instead he swallowed, stood and said, “Does Patricks ring a bell?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“Because Watson left us a clue.”

 

Lestrade came closer and knelt next to him to peer at the wood. He sat back, “It might give us something.”

 

His heart stuttered, “I certainly hope so Inspector.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little difficult to get down, but I hope it's still an enjoyable read.

Lestrade sent him home.

 

No matter how much Holmes protested Lestrade made it clear that until they had a solid lead Holmes was to stay at Bakerstreet. “We can’t afford them knowing you’re searching! We might lose him as a result!” Lestrade had yelled this at him, hands balled and eyes burning.

 

He was right, of course he was right. And in the wake of his anger Holmes had bowed out. But that didn’t mean that Holmes wouldn’t be doing _something_. Watson was missing, because someone wanted to scare Holmes, which made it his fault. No matter what Lestrade said, Holmes would do everything in his power to bring him back home. With hard steps he charged up the stairs to Bakerstreet. Ignoring Mrs. Hudson worried call he went straight to his room and got to work.

 

When he stepped out of the flat only half an hour later, Sherlock Holmes was replaced by Garry Gingers, a friendly peddler out to find a few coins for a drink at the local tavern.

 

The outing was insightful, in an inverse sort of way. He dropped the name Patricks as many times as he could with no tangible result. Most referred to either a church or street, but nothing more than good common knowledge provided. As a name it came up far more. “My good friend Patricks is a farmer” “Gillian Patricks works around the corner at the Black Mule.” There were hundreds of Patricks in the city, but none which triggered any sort of realisation or brilliant deduction.

 

But through his questions and coaxing he did learned of the _rumours_. Of children being sacrificed to some ancient god, being shipped off to the Americas to become husbands and wives to the rich, and to slake the lusts of some depraved, twisted man until he tired of them. All of the rumours circulated around one key fact; there were no bodies.

 

Thus, either the children were being kept alive, or their bodies simply could not be found. Which intrigued Holmes, as blood had been found on the ribbon and doll. As if he wanted them to at least _think_ they were dead.

 

Which suggested a message.

 

After a few more questions Holmes headed back to Bakerstreet, his mind perfectly occupied and running with a singular possibility; the children were not dead. It had been an assumption he’d made, one that had blinded him to other possibilities. When the dawn finally spilled through the smog of London, he felt quite confidant in this assessment. Now they just had to find the man, and with him his dear Watson.

 

The faint pink light pressed through the half open curtains, sending beams of light spilling over the carpet. Holmes, mulling over the problem, watched the slow progression of light. The flat felt quiet, almost dead in its silence. The whole world outside felt too far away, despite the slow press of light cutting into his home. One beam finally sliced through and landed on his desk. Over Watson’s hat. His heart clenched.

 

Holmes stood and covered the short distance with uneasy steps. He reached out.

 

It was cold and rough, the familiar texture equal parts soothing and burning. A rise of emotion made his eyes press tight shut. How many times had he grabbed this bowler to toss it to his friend on their way out? Picked it up after he’d dropped it or the wind had grabbed it? Hung it up on its place when Watson had been too tired to get up from his seat? How many times had Watson done so for him in turn? Too many to count.

 

His heart stuttered suddenly making his breath hitch. For a long time, Holmes knew he cared about Watson. Fiercely so, to the point that he would give his life to him should it be needed. He just never realised that should his friend be gone from his life it would feel like a part of him had gone with him.

 

Holmes made to pick it up and stopped instantly. It was still battered and full of grime, and on the inside the words still sat ugly and angry. He turned away and collapsed in Watson’s chair. It was a better vantage point to watch the windows. After a long moment he pulled Watson’s woollen blanket over the back of the chair, lined with the scent of his friend, over his shoulders and tight around his frame. He watched the windows and breathed.

 

Patricks. Why that word? A church or street it certainly could be. But Holmes felt it was more pertinent to himself. Watson was trying to tell him something, remind him of something. He knew it, he just couldn’t place what it was.

 

Patricks.

 

The case files mocked him from his seat. He stood, blanket still tight around him, to scan through them, but nothing came up with a name. Not a case had worked on then. Watson kept far more… emotional records than he did. His books were neatly lined on a bookshelf in his room. Holmes knew this. He would have to go up there.

 

Ten minutes later saw him still standing in the sitting room, pondering the name, hoping he could recall it through sheer force of will. He couldn’t.

 

“Damn it all!”

 

He pounded up the steps, keeping the blanket secure around his shoulders, and came to a sudden halt at the still open door. The room was dark, light still hadn’t reached this side of the house. His throat tightened. Holmes closed his eyes, composed himself and crossed the threshold.

 

It wasn’t cold. He’d half thought it would be. With slow steps he crossed the short distance to the bookshelf. Lighting a candle, he sat down on the floor in front of the fifty or so notebooks.

 

Watson kept excellent notes. Dates, times, places, temperatures, weather, names with quick little notes about the people and personalities, his short hand was easy to decipher. Sometimes brief histories, sometimes just comments on looks or smiles or demeanours. Holmes felt a little humbled by the sheer effort Watson put into his cases. This must take hours if not days to rework into stories. Here and there he made brief little jotting notes, comments on a situation. From ‘Holmes looked livid, thankfully client missed it’ to ‘Holmes smug equals angry Lestrade’. They were everywhere.

 

A smile pulled slightly on his lips. Each little book felt like a tame capsule, pulling him back to the case and its particulars.

 

‘ _Ericson, v.t’_

 

Vile temper. Yes, he remembered that! The man had nearly knocked Watson’s teeth in for making an assumption. Sure enough a small note on the side recalled the incident as simply, ‘ _never mention the war._ ’

 

The smile widened. Not quite Watson.

 

He opened another journal only titled ‘ _The missing jewel._ ’

 

‘ _Lady Marine r.s’_

 

Here Holmes out right laughed. Rich snob. It had to be. The woman had been insufferable. A short note at the bottom said ‘ _Holmes did not like her. He hid it well_.’

 

Did I? I thought I’d been quite open with my hostility to the lady.

 

‘ _Holmes l.l.’_

 

Holmes looked again. Shorthand, of course, but what on earth did it mean? He went back a few pages, scanning the people and came across another l.l., this time next to a woman’s name. A brief retraces and he realised the shorthand only came up next to a woman’s name.

 

L.l. What the devil could it mean?

 

Keeping the book open on the page, he opened another journal, one that had been published. He once again found the shorthand next a Lydia Bennett. Noting the context, just after they’d met her, Holmes pulled the corresponding case from Watson’s collection. Turned to the first page, and promptly dropped the Strand.

 

‘ _Lydia Bennett looked lovely.’_

 

The words stood up from the page, almost burning away all other text in its catastrophic implication. The words of course only a place holder for his own. Holmes looked lovely.

 

What could prompt another fellow to note such a thing? One friend certainly should not be commenting on another’s loveliness. Watson’s own writing proved that such sentiments should only be directed towards the fairer sex.

 

And yet Holmes couldn’t help but pick up the journal again, to find the note nestled in its context. They had attended a ball. Holmes recalled the evening with perfect clarity. They had each been dressed in their finest, their spirits still high from the successful case, walking arm and arm up the steps to enjoy the festivities. And Watson had thought he looked lovely.

 

His cheeks flared red, his heart suddenly jumping at the very thought. Holmes slammed the journal shut, and grabbed the bunch to shove them into the shelf, suddenly quite terrified of what they might reveal further.

 

“Blast!” the journals tumbled from his hands, clattering to the floor, barely missing the candle. He scrapped them up and slipped them in quick and fast. He would sort them out later. He just made to shut the third when his eye caught another little note at the bottom of the page.

 

‘ _Patricks, what a tragedy._ ’

 

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. A sudden burst of energy forcing him to stand. There it was. Dear God, he’d been _right_.

 

Holmes quickly flicked through the journal, searching desperately for another mention of the name but to no avail. He glared at the name, his elation fading into frustration, what the devil was Watson even on about? Was it a discussion they’d had? Something a client had mentioned? Holmes felt certain he would have remembered.

 

A burst of inspiration struck. Journal in hand he trotted down the stairs and pulled down his newspaper archives. Sifting through them he found the corresponding date with the journal and quickly scanned the pages.

 

_Careless Mother Patricks Loses child during thunderstorm_

 

“Ha!” he called, pure joy finally burning away the constant fear which had taken a hold of him for so very long. His eyes scanned the paper and some of his elation dimmed.

 

‘ _While walking home during a thunderstorm, Mrs. Patricks from Crokery Street, lost her child when he ran after his hat…’_

 

Holmes stared. Then he lowered the paper, his eyes staring out the window to the smoggy streets. After a long pause he went to get dressed, and then asked Mrs. Hudson to send for Lestrade.

 

He went to stand by the window, flinging the blanket over his shoulders once more to keep out the cold. He could feel the need to run out and find her, to learn what this could mean. To question, poke, prod and demand until she offered everything she had to give. He could feel that need burn through him to take action against someone.

 

But Holmes would wait for Lestrade, so they might do this properly, to find her and question her carefully and hope that the answers were no darker than he imagined.

 

Holmes arms tightened around his frame. He glanced at the clock. He would give Lestrade 20 minutes, and then he would leave.

 

The rain started up again.

 


End file.
